


the icarus to your certainty

by sinistercacophony



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, M/M, Recovery, Sexual Dysfunction, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, andrew minyards canonical neck fetish, it's andrew pov you know the deal y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistercacophony/pseuds/sinistercacophony
Summary: Andrew knows how to get what he wants. He knows how to ask, how to indicate boundaries, and how to stab someone in the gut if they choose to ignore those boundaries. That’s really all he’s ever needed. He doesn’t let men touch him. He doesn’t let people get close enough to try.Except Neil.Except hewantsNeil. In ways he’s never wanted anyone before. Never trusted anybody before.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 53
Kudos: 488





	the icarus to your certainty

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow it would be hot for andrew to grind on neil while getting his neck sucked  
> me: writes 9.5k of introspection before i even get to that 
> 
> also ive never written porn before and hate kissing irl so!! idk how good this actually is but i'm actually kinda super proud of it so. heh. 
> 
> the tw's for this are in the end notes, most of it is pretty standard stuff for aftg so if you feel comfy going in blind feel free 
> 
> also i'm personally uncomfortable with treating bee as a motherly figure so in this she's purely a therapist. she's a good therapist. but she's not a mom. 
> 
> title is from sunlight by hozier. it is uh,, kinda the basis for this whole fic actually except i did it on accident.

Andrew Minyard does not get _embarrassed._ Embarrassment is for people who give a shit about what other people think of them, and Andrew does not care about other people or their opinions of his actions. Andrew’s life has been a trail of humiliations and he has endured them time after time and his brain is so tired of it that it’s basically just given up on the emotion entirely. 

So no, Andrew isn’t embarrassed, necessarily, about the thing with Neil. It’s just— 

He doesn’t know how to talk about sex. 

He knows how to get what he wants. He knows how to ask, how to indicate boundaries, and how to stab someone in the gut if they choose to ignore those boundaries. That’s really all he’s ever needed. He doesn’t let men touch him, he _certainly_ doesn’t let anyone near his dick, or under his clothes. He doesn’t let people get close enough to try. 

Except Neil. 

Except he _wants_ Neil. In ways he’s never wanted anyone before. Never trusted anybody before.

Neil is good at reading body language and taking direction, but that will only take them so far, Andrew knows. At some point he’s going to have to explain, and the thought makes him uncomfortable in several directions. 

One is a clench of nausea in his gut that he would even think about allowing himself to be so vulnerable with someone. The certainty that it will all go wrong and it will be his own fault because he let it get that far— let himself be in a position where he could be hurt. 

The other is. Weirder. He just doesn’t know what to say. How to articulate what he wants with words rather than gestures. Andrew hates talking, hates having to string words together. On his worst days they sink back into his throat like anchors and he cannot say anything. No one ever seems to notice, on those days, because he is often quiet and they take his rudeness for granted. But— he thinks maybe Neil is starting to notice that there are days where his silence is not so deliberate. He’s never said anything but he watches Andrew in this particular way. Not with pity, just— more attention to detail, maybe. 

So Andrew cannot find the words to explain, and while Andrew is not concerned with sounding like an idiot, there is still no good way he can think of to say what he means. How to explain _Hey, Neil, I want you to put your hands on me but good luck trying to get me off, no it is not you it is me, sorry my fucking dick is broken. Or maybe I will have a panic attack and be unable to look at you for a week. Are you having fucking fun yet, Neil? Is this really what you want?_

Neil has allowed Andrew to take the lead on all their sexual endeavors up to this point but the truth is that Andrew has never consensually gotten past blowjobs with someone, until Neil. He’d never willingly come in front of someone before, until that day in the shower. He’s always locked himself in bathrooms, or curled up under the comforter, back up flat against the wall with the door locked, trying to get off as discreetly and as quickly as possible. 

It doesn’t always work. Some days it takes him forever to orgasm, sometimes he can’t at all. Sometimes when he leaves Neil panting on the bed to lock himself in the bathroom all he has to do is shove his hand down his pants and he’s going off like a rocket. It’s easier to be alone, and let what happens happen, than to expose Neil to the way his libido swings in one direction or the other. 

It’s not that he thinks Neil would care, necessarily. Neil seems happy with whatever Andrew wants to give him. The problem is that what Andrew _wants_ to give him and what Andrew may feasibly be _able_ to give him are not the same things. 

Sometimes just being aroused makes him feel hands and hear murmurs of words he wishes he could forget. His sexual history is full of landmines and he does not know how to show Neil where they are buried. How to guide him to solid ground. Andrew does not want to lead forever. Does not want every single intimate moment to be predicated on a laundry list of conditions he barely knows how to communicate. 

There are places where he could research, he knows. The library. The internet. But Andrew hates libraries and he’s certainly not checking out any books on sex to bring back to the dorm. Andrew is bad with technology too, he is not good at finding information online, and he doesn’t have a laptop so it would need to be on school computers anyway and that is also a hard no. 

So that leaves Bee. 

She’s mentioned off hand in the past that she’d be willing to offer guidance on his relationship with Neil. (Andrew still hates that word, but it’s hard for him to deny it at this point, nearly eight months into this— whatever.) Andrew hadn’t found it necessary. In fact, at the time he’d barely considered it a relationship, so it had not even mattered. Until suddenly it was, and it had. 

Andrew barely wants to acknowledge his internal thoughts about sex to Neil, much less to Bee, but he has the vague impression that this might, actually, be what therapy is for, or some shit like that. 

So he’s sitting on Bee’s couch nearing the end of their session trying to figure out a way to phrase his question that doesn’t give away too much information. He trusts Bee, he does. There are so many cracks running through his skin, though. He feels like ‘can Andrew Minyard get off with his partner without it being a federal fucking issue’ should be the least of his goddamn problems but for some reason it feels _important._

So he nuts the fuck up and says, “There is— another thing.” 

Bee looks up from where she’d been idly jotting notes on her notepad. She looks politely curious. That’s her default face, really. Bee is neutral in all things, right up until she is not. It is refreshing, to have someone who doesn’t look horrified, when Andrew explains himself. 

Andrew takes the cue to continue, “I need to talk to Neil about something.” 

Betsy gives a disarming smile, “And you would like my advice?” 

Andrew doesn’t respond, just gives a jerky nod. 

There’s a space of silence before Betsy continues, “Is it something you would like to discuss with me first, Andrew?”

Andrew gives another nod, and then clarifies, “Just how to talk about it. Not. The thing itself.”

She nods thoughtfully, “Alright then, go ahead when you’re ready.” 

Silence again. 

He doesn’t even know where to fucking start. 

“Is this something you’re actually comfortable sharing, Andrew?” 

No. But he’s going to. “It’s about. Sex.” 

“Alright,” she doesn’t even sound surprised, “Do you want me to ask you questions? Or do you know what you want to say?” 

“The second. Then maybe the first.” 

“Okay. You can speak whenever you’re ready Andrew.” 

That might be a while. But there are only fifteen minutes left so he should probably get it over with. 

“I want to. Do more. With Neil. But I— can’t always,” Andrew gives up on words and makes a crude gesture instead. 

When it’s clear Andrew isn’t going to say anything else Bee says, “Is it okay if I ask you a very blunt question, Andrew?” 

Andrew nods. 

“When you say you can’t always, do you mean you can’t always get aroused, or you can’t always orgasm?” 

And this is what Andrew likes about Betsy. Always straight for the throat. 

“The second. Usually. Sometimes the first— but that is usually on days where I do not want to be having sex anyway.” 

“And you want to talk about this with Neil?” 

“Yes. I am not— ashamed. I just don’t— know how to explain.” _I’ve never had to before,_ he doesn’t say. 

“Do you have any other specific concerns or worries?” 

Andrew doesn’t know. Neil has accepted all of Andrew’s idiosyncrasies up to this point, there is no reason this should be different. But it feels different because this is something that Andrew has never deliberately shared with anyone else. It’s something that’s _his_ more immutably than anything else might be. 

Andrew spent nearly the entirety of juvie parsing his own sexuality. Trying to figure out if all the hands and all the words had fundamentally broken something inside him, if he was like this now because they had crafted him to be just like them. 

Eventually he’d decided that no. He would not allow it to be. He would not allow _them_ to dictate what he chose to do with his body, with his sexuality. He’d kissed a lot of boys in juvie. It had been— educational. Told him that sex didn’t have to be take and take and take, that he could give something, give exactly what he wanted to give and nothing more. Take back exactly what someone else wanted to give him. 

And he’d done that on his own. By himself. He didn’t _need_ anyone else to help him dictate his own boundaries but— it helped. Bee helped. _Neil_ helped. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. 

_Idiot,_ he thinks, _They’re going to fail you and then where will you be._

But Andrew has never been able to control his loyalties and all attempts to try have ended in disaster. He is becoming jaded to the idea that he will be forever setting himself up to fail. 

“That he will not understand. That I will not get better. That it might set me back.” 

“Are you concerned about triggering yourself?” 

He takes a moment to think about it. Everything he’s done with Neil thus far has been— easy, comparatively. Except for that day in the shower it had all been something Andrew had done before. He knows what his triggers are for kissing, or jacking someone off, or sucking dick. He has no idea what will set him off when he lets someone start touching him. Even someone he _wants_ touching him. 

“Yes.” 

Andrew has been all kinds of fucked up in front of Neil, but there is something different when it might be from something Andrew has asked Neil himself to do. He cannot allow Neil to go into that blind. Cannot let him think that it is something that is avoidable. 

“I know I will be. And I don’t know how. And I don’t know how to explain that it will not be his fault.” 

Bee hums thoughtfully, “You could try saying what you just said to me.” 

Andrew remains silent. Is that enough? 

Bee continues, “I think Neil knows you well enough that you can talk frankly with him about these things. There shouldn’t be any need to get fancy. Just tell him what you want. And what might happen, and what you want from him if it does.” 

It sounds simple. It probably won’t be, but it is good enough for now. 

At his lack of response Bee asks, “Was that helpful for you Andrew?” 

He nods. 

Bee continues, “I think our session is about up for today, but if you would like to continue talking about Neil, or talk more about sexual dysfunction and ways of coping with it, please let me know.” 

Sexual dysfunction. What a stupid fucking term. It sounds so clean and polite. Andrew pushes down his instinctual need to reject it. Bee has been working on helping him accept that sometimes having labels can be helpful. She’s not necessarily wrong, but holding them all in his head starts to feel like he’s collecting trivial playing cards. _Gotta catch ‘em all!_ and all that shit. 

He doesn’t bother telling Bee goodbye as he leaves the room. 

— 

Kissing Neil is like fire. It rushes along Andrew’s skin, pools hotly in his stomach, makes him feel shivery and lit up from the inside. 

Neil’s hands in his hair. The heat of his body, just inches away, the little inhales he makes when Andrew bites him just right, the chapped skin on his lips and the way it catches on Andrew’s tongue. 

It makes Andrew want to move closer. He wants to plant himself in Neil’s lap and feel their chests against each other, feel Neil’s hands running down his waist, Neil’s thighs flexing under his ass, Neil’s lips on his throat. 

It will not happen. But he wants it so much he feels it thrumming through his limbs, the desire to reach out, to press himself closer and closer until there is no space between them left. 

Neil scratches his nails through the hair behind Andrew’s ear, right against the scalp. A sound rises in Andrew’s throat but he pushes it down, like all the other noises he might make. It’s second nature, at this point, to be silent. He does not have to think about it. It has always been easier to stay quiet. 

Neil is quiet too, usually, but he is a little louder than Andrew. He will let out harsh gasps when Andrew jacks him off, grunts of pleasure and quiet whines when Andrew blows him. They’re pretty noises, but not delicate, really. Neil’s voice is always a little raspy and mellow, cotton scraping on timber. It makes Andrew want to devour him. 

Andrew ends the kiss abruptly. He’s panting more harshly than he wants to be, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and he tries to deepen his breaths to push back the overwhelming _desire_ flooding his system. 

When he looks up, Neil is panting too, but he is wearing that stupid fucking smile that he always has on after Andrew is done kissing him. Like he’s having the time of his life, like Andrew has given him a gift. 

“Stop staring.” 

Neil averts his eyes immediately but the smile doesn’t go away. Andrew hates it. He wants to wipe it off Neils face. _Preferably with another kiss_ his traitorous brain says, but he ignores it. 

As Andrew sits in silence trying to get himself back under control, Neil pulls away, looks off the roof over the spreading campus below. The sun is setting, casting the world in dim glittering light. When he opens his mouth Andrew immediately knows he’s about to say something stupid. 

“Thank you.” 

God. What an asshole. 

“Shut up,” he grits out. 

The smile starts to have an edge of smug to it, “Okay. If you really want me to.” 

He doesn’t, but he does not plan on telling that to Neil. 

“We need to talk about something,” he lets the words drop heavily between them. 

This gets Neil to look at him again, eyes like ice chips. Andrew meets them steadily. Neil’s smile is dropping. That is not necessarily a bad thing. Neil does not often keep his smiles for very long. 

“What about?” He sounds curious but not concerned. It is not often that Andrew prompts the start of conversations. Usually Neil will share something, start talking about Exy, or his time on the run, or how much of a bitch Kevin’s been about his diet lately, and Andrew will either let the words wash over him or will engage, if Neil is talking about something interesting enough to be worth it. Andrew finds that engaging Neil in conversations is almost as easy as talking to Renee, maybe easier, nowadays. Neil does not mind if there are odd gaps as Andrew thinks, or if the subject gets bluntly changed, or if Andrew decides to get into the nitty gritty detail of his thoughts on some movie or another. Neil seems to like listening. Listening to Andrew. 

Andrew rearranges himself into sitting cross legged. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it up, taking a drag before he starts. “Sex.” 

“Oh,” and now Neil actually sounds surprised, “Okay?” 

Andrew is doing this now so he just dives straight in, “I want you to touch me. I may react poorly.” 

Neil sounds confused, “I already touch you?” 

Andrew turns and looks at him as flatly as he can, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

It takes a second before it clicks. “Oh! You mean your—” Neil makes a vague gesture at his crotch. 

“Yes, I mean my dick, Neil.” 

Neil tinges a little pink at that but doesn’t seem very phased otherwise. “Okay. What do you want me to do?” 

Andrew mulls on that for a moment. 

“I do not know how far I will be able to get,” he looks at Neil, looks over the precipitous cliffs of vulnerability and takes the leap, “I have never tried before.” 

Neil looks— Surprised. Accepting. Understanding. Resentment stirs in Andrew’s stomach once again but he pushes it down. 

Andrew continues, “I will probably be triggered by something. I cannot predict what. You cannot get offended. It will not be your fault.” 

The certainty Andrew feels — that Neil will keep his trust, will not violate the lines Andrew puts down, even as Andrew puts those lines into murkier and murkier territory — it is dangerous. Everything he gives is a chance for Neil to take, to rob and to violate and to hurt him down to his bones. 

But he does trust Neil. 

Neil, who has his hands in his lap as he looks at Andrew very seriously and says, “Okay. I understand.” 

Andrew is not done, but this part is— harder maybe, to explain. 

“I am also—” he cuts himself off. Pauses to search for the phrasing he wants, “It is sometimes— difficult. For me to get off. Even alone. It will probably be harder— with you. Or— the opposite. Very fast.” 

Neil takes this information in with no change in expression, “Okay,” he says again. 

Andrew hates him so much. Hates deep in his bones that this man will look at Andrew baring his soft underbelly and refuse to scratch it bloody with razor sharp claws. Will instead look at Andrew _like that_ and say _Thank you. I know you didn’t have to do this, but I’m glad you did._

Who fucking does that. Who the fuck allowed Neil Josten. 

Neil looks at Andrew consideringly, trapping his lip between his teeth as he thinks. Eventually he offers into the silence between them, “When I’m alone I can’t always— either. With you it’s different. Easier.” 

It is an offering. Making them even. A truth for a truth. 

Their game is not so important, anymore. Neil will tell him things without prompting, and Andrew will reply in turn. Not everything must be bargained for. But it is comforting, sometimes, to fall back into old habits. 

Andrew abruptly feels very done with the conversation. “The next time we are in Colombia, maybe,” he offers, and then pulls himself to his feet, crushing the butt of his cigarette under his boot on the way. Neil doesn’t stand, just watches Andrew with that goddamn look on his face again. 

Andrew flicks him hard on the forehead and walks away. 

— 

The pounding beat and the flashing lights of Eden’s Twilight build a pleasant sort of buzz in Andrew’s brain. He enjoys the onslaught of sensory input— it silences his thoughts, leaves him feeling blank and quiet, smooth like marble. 

He’s not drinking tonight. He’s already going to be enough on edge later, no reason to add alcohol to the list of potential things that could incite disaster. 

Nicky and Kevin are off dancing and Aaron seems intent on getting drunk enough to black out. He and the cheerleader are having a fight. Andrew feels distantly smug. 

Neil is pressed up against Andrew, firm and hot, a brand along his side. He smells a little like sweat and a little like the spice scented shampoo he steals from Kevin. He smells like boy. Andrew likes it. There is a warmth stirring in his belly, the beginnings of arousal. Andrew has low expectations for tonight going well but he allows it to sit there, bloom slowly inside him. 

_I want to kiss him,_ Andrew thinks, _I want him to kiss me and put his hands in my hair and his thigh between my legs. I want his hands and his mouth and whatever else he will give me. I want him._

The thoughts are less terrifying than they used to be, but there is still a spark of anxiety stirring beside them. He acknowledges it, lets it sit there, along with everything else. Hears Bee’s voice in his ear, _It is okay to be unsure about things and to want them anyway._

_I am sure_ , he thinks, Andrew does not do things he is not sure of, but the panic is instinctual and unavoidable so he does not give in any more or less credit than it deserves. 

The night is starting to wind down. Aaron and Neil are sniping at each other about something inane, the both of them puffed up like territorial cats. Annoying. 

Andrew moves, shifting out of his silent stillness. Neil is immediately looking at him, attentiveness bright in his eyes, “Ready to go?” 

Andrew nods his assent. Neil drags Aaron towards the exit while Andrew searches the crowd for Kevin and Nicky. Once they’re extricated — Nicky from a knot of dancers near the center of the floor; Kevin from where he is edging along the bar away from a vapid looking woman trying to flirt with him — he pulls them out into the warm night air. The sudden lack of light and noise is not disorienting but part of Andrew feels mildly annoyed at the loss. 

Fitting everyone into the backseat of the Maserati is always a bit like playing tetris with very wiggly blocks. Aaron goes in the middle, with Kevin behind the passenger seat and Nicky behind the driver. When everyone is in, Andrew glances over the top of the car at Neil. Neil holds up the keys in his hands with a questioning look. Andrew opens the door on the passenger side and climbs in. 

Neil slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot is a matter of moments, and the ride back to the house is brief. The three stooges are drunkenly muttering among themselves. Andrew takes the opportunity to watch Neil drive. 

The flashing lights of the street lamps illuminate the reddish cast of Neil’s hair. He always looks focused when he drives, eyes narrowed at the road ahead, checking the mirrors and blind spots like maybe someone is chasing him. 

Andrew eyes the traces off stubble along his sharp jaw, the way his clavicles flex under his shirt as he turns the wheel. His scars stand out in heavy contrast in the shadows, thin and sharp across his cheekbone and the knuckles of his hands. 

The warmth is still building. Andrew presses his cheek into the cool leather of the seat and lets cotton suffuse his thoughts. 

He doesn’t fall asleep, but it does take a moment for him to notice when the car has stopped. Neil doesn’t make any move to get out, even as the rest of them spill out of the back. He’s looking steadily back at Andrew now, his eyes gleaming, almost inhuman in the dim light. 

Andrew blinks slowly at him. Neil’s smile cuts across his face like a razor. Andrew is far too weak for dangerous boys. 

Andrew looks away. He gets out of the car. Nicky has already unlocked the door of the house and everyone has spread out — Aaron to his room probably, Kevin slumped on the couch, Nicky in the kitchen getting water. 

Andrew ignores them all and heads straight up the stairs, towards his bedroom. He closes the door behind him but leaves it unlocked. The bed is pushed up against the wall, the windowsill easily accessible directly above it. Andrew’s sheets are clean and dark, with his comforter bunched up on one end of the bed from where he hadn’t bothered to remake it last week. He’d thought about offering to let Neil sleep with him then, but that night he’d been drunk and pissy and the urge thrumming under his skin hadn’t been this suffuse warmth but the desire to _hit_ something and thus he had discarded the idea. 

Tonight though. Maybe. It will depend on how poorly the whole experiment goes. 

He sits on the end of the bed and considers himself. He unlaces his boots and kicks them across the floor, along with his socks. He leaves everything else on, but he does pull the knives out of his armbands and drop them in a drawer on his side table. He slides it closed so the sharp gleam of them in the night cannot catch Neil’s eye. 

He scoots a bit further back in the bed and pulls his legs up with him, resisting the urge to bring his knees up to his chest and instead opting to cross them at the ankles. He catalogues his clothing. Shirt, short sleeved and close fitting, arm bands, belt, jeans, boxers. He thinks about grabbing a hoodie and wearing that too but dismisses the idea. He is less concerned with his upper half. 

Neil is taking a while to come up. Probably giving Andrew time to get himself in order. Andrew can hear the edge of Nicky’s voice raising in excitement, Kevin’s gruff reply, scattered laughter. 

He closes his eyes and lets a kind of meditative silence pour over his thoughts. Without Neil directly in his line of sight the hunger clawing in his belly feels less insistent, but it is still there, curled up like a cat waiting to be stroked. 

He waits. 

It is not very long before he hears the click of the handle turning, the shuffling creak as Neil steps inside. The snap of the door locking. He opens his eyes. 

Andrew hadn’t bothered to turn the light on, so the room is nearly black aside from the light pollution filtering in through the window. Neil is invisible aside from the gleam of his eyes. 

Andrew does not say anything, just lifts his hand and crooks a single finger. Neil approaches as if pulled, until he is directly in front of the bed. His hands are in his pockets and there is a ghost of a smile lingering on his face. 

Neil says, “Still good?” 

Andrew speaks, for the first time in hours, “Yes or no?” He’s aware of how rough his voice sounds, throaty and hard. 

The smile slides firmly onto Neil’s face. Andrew knows because he is watching Neil’s lips. 

Neil bends over until he is eye level with Andrew, hands still firmly in his pockets, their lips only inches apart. Andrew can feel the puff of breath as he speaks. “Yes, Andrew.” 

For the first time tonight Andrew allows himself to touch, to reach out. He slides one of his hands into the thick of Neil’s hair right at the nape of his neck and pushes their mouths together. 

Andrew is set aflame. 

Andrew’s focus narrows down to those single points of contact. Neil’s lips are rough and chapped, his tongue warm and flexible as it traces along Andrew’s. Andrew lets himself get lost in it. This one stretched moment where nothing has gone wrong and nothing will go wrong. The heat sizzling under his skin is back with a fury. He’s almost shaking with it. He wants Neil pressed closer closer closer, heavy and warm on top of him until Andrew’s brain shorts out and he can stop _thinking_ so goddamn much. 

He’s pretty sure Neil would kiss him for hours, given the opportunity. Andrew’s never tested it, but he wants to try, some day. Wants to wake up with Neil next to him warm and soft in the sunlight and kiss him and kiss him until it is dark again. He wants it with a ferocity that terrifies him, and he pulls his mouth back from Neil’s to push down the sudden spike of panic. Neil doesn’t move, just presses his forehead up against Andrew’s. Nuzzles a little into the hand Andrew still has gripped into his hair. His breath is hot and both their mouths are slicked with spit. 

Andrew pulls back, wiping his mouth with one hand and using the other to direct Neil so he’s sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. The jeans he’s wearing aren’t particularly tight, but they’re dark and actually the correct length so they look better on him than most of the rest he owns. He’s already discarded his shoes somewhere. Probably in a place Andrew will trip on them tomorrow. 

Andrew keeps distance between their bodies as he arranges Neil amongst the pillows. He yanks on the bottom of Neil’s shirt. 

“Off.” 

Neil removes it quickly, reaching up and tugging it off over his head. Andrew is momentarily distracted by the mess it makes of his hair before he slides his gaze down along Neil’s bare chest. 

Neil’s body is a battleground, but it is a healed one, at this point. The scars ground Andrew in a way that nothing else really can. No one else has them. He can run his hands along the rough skin of Neil’s stomach and know exactly who he’s touching without even opening his eyes. 

Andrew does not touch yet. 

He sits, paralyzed by what he wants and how much he wants it. _This will go poorly,_ he thinks. 

Neil is waiting, patient and silent. 

“I’m going to sit on you, yes or no.” 

The surprised delight in Neil’s eyes makes Andrew want to punch him. “Yeah. Sounds good.” 

So Andrew swings his leg over Neil’s thighs and settles his weight right on top of Neil’s lap, back far enough that he’s not directly on top of the growing bulge in Neil’s jeans. Neil has both his hands tucked behind him. 

Andrew evaluates himself. He feels okay. Neil is warm underneath him, like always, and there are no sick shivers of fear running down his spine. He scoots up closer, until he can feel the warmth of Neil’s erection under his thigh. Still okay. 

When he looks up from situating himself Neil is looking at him like— like— 

Like he’s doing something amazing. Like Andrew is something precious. Like he matters. 

Andrew transforms the violent urge to punch him into another searing kiss. This one zings like electricity in all the places he is pressed against Neil. He can feel Neil breathing against him. Can feel the way his thighs flex as he leans up desperately into Andrew’s mouth. Can feel right down into his bones the groan Neil makes when Andrew pulls off Neil’s lips to mouth at his jawline. Andrew sets one hand on Neil’s chest and skates the other down Neil’s shoulder, over his tense biceps, the damaged skin interspersed with fine little hairs on the back of his forearm, and closes his hand around Neil’s wrist. 

He is split in two, one half focusing on leaving little bruises in a trail along the thin skin of Neil’s throat, the other trying to decide where he wants to be touched, where is safe, a place that won’t lead to him having to kick Neil out of the room to have a panic attack. 

He starts by settling Neil’s hand at the crook of his waist. “Stay,” he murmurs, pressing down hard once, so Neil gets the message. 

It feels like a brand, even through the material of Andrew’s shirt. And there’s— _something_ welling up within Andrew, a feeling he can barely identify gooey and insistent and clamouring for more more more. 

Neil’s erection is solid underneath him now, and Andrew gives in to the urge to _grind,_ a slow roll of his hips that makes Neil’s breaths stutter in his throat as he gasps out a half formed whine. 

Andrew does it again, leaving both of them gasping before Andrew pulls off Neil’s neck to take a moment to breathe. Neil takes the opportunity to start sucking the hinge of Andrew’s jaw because he’s a horrible terrible person who knows far too much. The electricity that goes down Andrew’s spine incites him into grinding down again. 

It would be so easy to just get Neil off like this, to slide his hand down between them and jack Neil off and then kick him out of the room so Andrew can take care of himself. Neil wouldn’t care. Andrew being in his lap like this is already so much.

But it’s not enough. And Andrew _trusts_ Neil in a way he’s never trusted anyone before and he really really wants to fucking try. 

Grabbing Neil’s other hand is a matter of moments, but this one he sets directly on his upper leg. Not too far up, but it puts Neil’s thumb directly against the inseam on his inner thigh. 

It immediately sets off alarms in Andrew’s mind, blaring and frantic repetitions of _too close not there, don’t let him touch you there_ but Neil doesn’t move, and Andrew sits and breathes and gives himself time to shut them off one by one. 

He realizes his eyes are closed but he doesn’t remember when he closed them. He slits them open cautiously. The hand not set over Neil’s hand on his thigh is braced on Neil’s chest, and he’s been unconsciously stroking the skin there, running his fingers along ragged scar tissue and the pink bud of his nipple. 

Neil is making that face at him again, the soppy one. It feels— not as weird as it usually does, right now. All of Andrew’s nerves are lighting up and he’s battling conflicting instincts of panic and desire and he really probably should wait a bit longer before he starts them moving again but he doesn’t _want_ to wait so he sticks his tongue back in Neils mouth and uses the hand not on Neil’s chest to undo his belt buckle and the top button of his jeans. He’s hard. It's easy to roll down his zipper, press his hand inside to stroke firmly over himself and— 

The thing about Andrew’s memory is that despite it being perfect, most things are still buried, pushed down as far as he can get them, where he doesn’t have to acknowledge or replay them. It is impossible to recall every instance of one’s life all at once, after all. Unfortunately, all Andrew needs to go down a rabbit hole of recollections is a single trigger, a single moment of deja vu, and then all the rest slots into place in an onslaught of oversaturated nauseating memories. 

_Oh yeah, I love it when you touch yourself for me pretty boy._

Andrew falls. 

Generally the nausea hits him first, followed by the spikes of panic as uncontrolled thoughts flood in. He’s vaguely aware of gritting out, “Stop,” at some point, but all that is rushing through his mind is hands and words and _please don’t touch me please don’t hurt me I want to die I want it to end fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck make it stop make it STOP—_

Andrew’s breaths are quick in his throat, when he starts to come back to himself, out of the overwhelming replay of _too much too much too much._ He feels like he’s about to vomit, about to freeze into a pillar of ice, about to fall and fall and fall and smash onto the cliffs of his own hubris. 

He is pressed flat up against the wall, legs against his chest, hands gripping the sheets white knuckled and trembling through the aftershocks of adrenaline. He cannot see Neil but he does not remember hearing the door open so he must still be in the room. He is not on the bed at least. 

Andrew finds he still has a voice, “Neil.” 

Neil’s head pops up over the side of the bed. He must have been sitting on the ground, just out of eyesight. He looks concerned but not panicked, not guilty, just— steady. “Do you need me to leave?” 

Does he? 

“No. Stay.” Andrew’s voice hurts coming out of his throat but he feels very sure, “Come up here. Don’t touch me.” 

There are still fine trembles running through Andrew’s body. From an outside perspective they’re barely noticeable, but he feels like he’s vibrating inside himself. 

The shift in weight as Neil gingerly seats himself back on the bed has more alarms blaring in his mind but it’s easier to turn them off now. It’s just Neil. Neil is safe. Andrew trusts him. 

“Talk.” 

“Uh. Shit. Okay. What about?” 

“Fucking anything Neil, I don’t care.” 

Neil, of fucking course, assumes this means it’s time to talk about Exy. He immediately starts talking about their upcoming game, player stats, plays, strategies, whatever fucking else. It’s easy for Andrew to tune out, but it gives him the familiar cadence of Neil’s voice rising and falling in his ear, which is helping far more than he’d like it to. Neil is an impossible thing, but he is still here. Despite everything. Despite Andrew stubbornly triggering himself just because he was too fucking horny and stupid to be patient. 

_Be kind to yourself._

It’s Bee’s voice, in the back of his head. Easier said than done, really. But he’s trying. He’s trying so fucking hard all the goddamn time. 

Eventually the adrenaline starts to fade from his system, leaving exhaustion and an odd sort of blankness in its wake. His eyes start to drift shut, soothed by the soft drone of Neil’s voice. 

He’s not sure how long is before Neil’s voice slows, stops. It jerks him back to full wakefulness when the bed shifts. His eyes flutter open. Neil is getting off the bed. Probably going to the armchair in the living room. Andrew blinks slowly at him, and Neil glances back, notices that Andrew’s eyes are open. 

He gives Andrew a lopsided smile. Andrew goes with his gut. “Sleep here.” 

Neil’s eyes widen. Andrew reaches out and blindly grabs the comforter, transferring himself down into the pillows and pulling it up over himself as he goes, keeping his back pressed hard against the wall. 

Neil is hovering. Andrew reaches out and grabs his wrist, tugs him vaguely downwards. Neil lets out a soft hum. 

“Lemme put some sleep clothes on okay?” 

Andrew lets go. While Neil is changing Andrew pulls off his belt, tossing it over the side of the bed, and rebuttons his pants. He’s not going to be able to change clothes tonight but he doesn’t mind sleeping in jeans anyway. 

When Neil gets back he slides under the blanket and sheet, facing Andrew with his palm resting in the space between them. 

Andrew is tired. He is so tired of this shit. The exhaustion is bone deep. 

_Next time,_ he thinks, _be patient. You’ll get there next time._

— 

Bee’s office is always so neat. Delicately arranged rows of glass animals on the shelves, all the books arranged by color, every paper neat and square to the desk. 

Andrew sits and feels like his insides are a ship being tossed from swell to swell in the middle of a hurricane. Messy. 

All his fears and his anger and his helplessness manifest as bits of glass lodged in his throat, and every week Bee pulls out her tweezers and delicately extricates them, one by one, leaving leaking and bloody flesh behind. 

“It’s getting worse.” 

Bee hums politely, “What is?” 

“When people touch me. It’s worse. Than it used to be.” 

Andrew has always hated people touching him, always resented over-friendly hugs or enthusiastic handshakes or whatever else kind of machismo bullshit roughhousing is present in any sport. 

But before it had been— annoying. He’d drawn his lines because he didn’t want people to get _ideas,_ but it had just been that. An irritant, something to avoid when possible and tolerate only as far as necessary if needed. 

Now though. It is not merely annoying. Now an accidental brush or a hand slamming down on his back after a game or even the gentle curl of Neil’s hands through his hair feels like— 

Feels like panic and nausea and fear fear fear deep in his veins and he doesn’t know how to stop it, how to turn off the alarms because it’s like their sensitivity has been set up to eleven and there’s nothing that _doesn’t_ set them off. 

It wasn’t this bad in January, or after Baltimore, or over the summer. Now the nightmares seem to plague him every time he shuts his eyes. He hasn’t slept more than a couple hours a night in weeks. He doesn’t know why this is happening _now._

Bee asks, “Has there anything that’s happened recently that you know might have set it off?” 

Andrew just shakes his head. The night with Neil had been rough but it hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, nothing he shouldn’t have been able to recover from. 

He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead on them. It puts his boots on Bee’s leather couch, which he knows annoys the fuck out of her, but he doesn’t care. 

Bee pauses for a moment and says, “I have a theory, if you would like me to share?” 

Andrew makes a vague gesture at her. She takes it as a cue to continue. 

“It’s coming up on a year, since what happened with Drake, at your aunt and uncle’s house.”

Andrew barely suppresses a flinch at the name. 

“At the time, part of the reason I was so insistent on getting you off that medication was because I believed that being unable to process the trauma of that day would leave you worse off in the long run. I did my best for you, I really did, and I don’t wish to force you to discuss things that may further retraumatize you, but you’ve never talked to me, about that day. I would go so far as to guess you’ve never talked to anyone about it. Repressing that, repressing the way what happened hurt you, may be what’s causing you to feel so vulnerable right now.” 

His throat feels so dry. 

“I don’t want to think about it.” 

“I think you already are, Andrew, I think you have been for a while.” 

No. He doesn’t want to. 

“I’m not going to push you on this Andrew but it’s something to think about.” 

He’s tired. His head hurts. He glances at the clock. Twenty minutes left. 

“I thought being an adult made me safe.” 

Bee keeps waiting. Always so patient, always so delicate, always finding the glass pieces so far down his throat he barely even knows they’re there. 

“I thought I could protect myself. From people like him. Because I was older and stronger and smarter than I was when I was a stupid little twelve year old or ten year old or seven year old. Because back then I was too fucking weak to stop it, but obviously now I _could_.” 

He thinks about Drake. About the white of his teeth and the bulge of his biceps and how the sight of him had paralyzed Andrew, fixed him in place until he’d been snapped out of it by the impact of the bottle on his head. How _easy_ it still was for Drake to manhandle him and pull at his clothes and take and take and take, just like he always did, just like everyone fucking did. 

“I was wrong.” 

He was never safe. He never had been. Maybe he never would be. 

He takes in a shuddery breath. 

Bee sounds gentle, when she speaks, “Andrew. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Wasn’t it? Shouldn’t he have known? Shouldn’t he have guessed, when Luther invited Nicky only if Andrew also came? When Neil _asked_ simply because Nicky was desperate, and Andrew listened because _what’s the worst that could happen._ When he was climbing those stairs, too distracted by the buzz of his own thoughts to wonder why the hell Luther was trying to bribe him, why Luther was trying to get him to leave the room, leave his family behind. 

_If I’d been less stupid, less vulnerable, if the drugs hadn’t made me so distractable, if I hadn’t frozen, if I hadn’t let Neil’s pretty face convince me—_

“Andrew? Can you talk to me?”

He doesn’t want to. It feels like his brain is clouding with fog. An outpour of all the anxieties he’d been pushing down, ignoring ignoring ignoring as if one day they would simply vanish. 

Stupid. Andrew’s never been one for optimism. 

“I should have been able to stop him.” 

— 

Half the time the things Bee preaches seem useless. Faith. Acceptance. Giving up control. These are things he _can’t_ do, isn’t even capable of trying, he thinks. Maybe never will be. 

_You will be someday,_ says Bee. 

Andrew is convinced that the only emotions he’s ever going to feel again are fear and apathy. Anger too maybe, but anger is really just fear manifested into violence. 

_Are you afraid of Neil?_

Yes. He is terrified. Neil feels like falling, like crashing, like drowning in the cacophonous ocean. 

Neil is the remnants of a forest fire. Neil will raze Andrew to the ground and leave nothing but a burnt out husk in his wake. 

_Do you know what happens after a forest fire Andrew? Things grow._

Andrew is not capable of growing. Andrew is a dead thing walking. The fact that Andrew is still breathing is nothing more than a quirk of fate, a hilarious twist of circumstance. The universe will correct itself eventually. Andrew clings to soft things, to good things, to ice cream and his car and Neil, but he clings because he knows they will eventually all be taken from him, one way or the other. There is no point in depriving himself of pleasure when he knows there will always be more misery. 

_It is good that you’re willing to be kind to yourself Andrew. You know, that’s very difficult for a lot of people._

Hah. Andrew is just selfish, really. It is safer than being anything else. 

_I don’t think you’re selfish at all Andrew. In fact, I think you’ve given up a lot for other people. Maybe it’s time to start taking yourself back._

Andrew does not know who he is whole. Andrew has always been a broken shattered thing, forged brittle and sharp by uncaring hands. 

_You don’t have to know who you are. All you have to do is be. You’re under no obligation to anyone but yourself._

Is that allowed?

 _Of course it’s allowed. You are a person. You deserve kindness just as much as anyone else._

I do not see the point. 

_Do you need to?_

Yes. No. He is not kind. He is not gentle. He is callous and uninterested in being palatable to others. Why should the world give him something he has no intentions to give back. It doesn’t work like that. 

_Perhaps it would be easier to think of the world at large as… neutral. And you are neutral too. Perhaps consider that being kind is not the same as being nice, or polite, or agreeable._

Then what is it? 

_Doing as little harm as possible._

Define harm. 

_I think that may be something you need to define for yourself Andrew. I know many people would consider rudeness harm, or inconvenience._

That’s stupid. 

_I suspected you might think so. You will have to come up with your own metric. You have been hurt so much more than most people. Your scale will be different._

Andrew is not worried about how people perceive him, really. It is easier to be disliked, to be avoided. Safer. 

_Andrew, I think the most important thing is that you feel safe, but I am not sure isolation is the way you will achieve that._

He is never safe. He was stupid to have ever thought he could be. The presence of other people is inconsequential.

 _There are many aspects of life that aren’t safe. I cannot promise you that things will always be okay, that no one will ever hurt you again. But pushing people away only makes you less safe. The fewer people in your support system, the easier it is for it to crumble._

Andrew’s life has always been a house of cards, built with shaking hands, collapsing time after time after time. He is less tempted to collapse it himself than he used to be, but the urge is still there, slumbering beneath his skin. 

_It is easier to be self destructive than to face the idea that you could be happy. Happiness can be taken away, after all._

Exactly. 

_You’ve stayed alive this long Andrew. I have no doubt if you did not want to be here, you would not be. So why not try? Why not see if it’s worth it?_

Why not indeed.

 _You’re already trying. You know this. I know this. I think the people close to you know too._

Maybe. 

_Why does Neil mean so much? What are the traits that make him interesting to you?_

He’s stupid. 

_Elaborate on that?_

He doesn’t care about safety. He just does shit. Because he wants to. Because his stupid little junkie brain won’t let him pick anything else. 

_Do you resent Neil for his ability to choose joy? Or do you admire it?_

Yes. 

_What does it mean then, that he chose you?_

It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about it. 

_That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But maybe you should ask Neil._

Maybe indeed.

— 

Neil finds him on the roof. 

Andrew feels like he has been peeled from the inside out. Talking to Bee is like that. She is soft and unassuming and then she pops each and every one of his rotten insecurities, scrubbing out the infection so they can heal over as best they can. 

He is healing. He wants to be healing. It feels the same as staring down over the edge of the building. The same as drowning in the cold icy water of Neil’s eyes.

“Cigarette?” Neil asks. He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the dimming sunlight. It catches at his rusty hair, turns his cheekbones golden and sharp. 

Andrew takes the cigarette he has just started smoking out of his own mouth and hands it to Neil. 

Neil still has a tendency to breath second hand smoke, despite the fact that Andrew suspects he’s just as much an addict as Andrew is. This cigarette he sticks in his mouth, though, pursing his lips around it while making direct eye contact with Andrew. They have not kissed in almost two weeks. Neil winks at him. 

Andrew barely reigns in a sound of disgust and looks away. Abhorrent. That’s what Neil is. Just the fucking worst. 

Neil does not start talking today. Instead he lets the silence rest between them; steady, comfortable. 

Andrew breaks it instead. 

“Why me.” He does not quite manage to inflect it into a question. 

He is not looking at Neil, but his confusion is almost palpable, “What?”

“Why are you here. What do you get out of it.”

_What can I give you that someone else can’t._

Neil makes a thoughtful humming noise. Andrew still cannot bear to look at him. 

“Is this what’s been bothering you?” 

“I am never bothered.” It’s patently false, but can it really be a lie if the person you are telling it to already knows the truth? 

There is a moment of silence. Neil breathes out. Andrew can perfectly picture the way smoke will cloud out of his mouth.

“I don’t get anything out of it. It’s just you.” 

_It’s just you._

What does that even mean? 

What is Andrew? Andrew is blank. Andrew is empty and cavernous, dangerous when he is not apathetic. Andrew cannot give enough of himself away anymore to make it worth it. But Neil does not want to take. He just wants Andrew. Just as he is. 

Ridiculous. 

“I can’t give you what you want.” It’s a stab in the dark. An attempt to pry an answer out of Neil that he is not sure is there. Digging into the wound, picking at the scab. 

“What is it that you think that is?” 

“Sex. Affection. Holding hands and kissing in public and candlelit dinners. All that stupid shit.” 

“Why the fuck would I want any of that?” 

He wouldn’t. Andrew knows that, but knowing and believing are different things. 

“I like you. I like being with you. I like doing things that make you feel good. I like it when you make me feel good, because I know you like it. I’m not doing this for anyone other than myself, and I don’t want anything more than what you can give me.” 

Andrew hates that it feels better, to hear it. _I knew that already,_ he thinks. _This is not new information._

“Whatever,” he deflects. 

“Andrew.” 

Andrew finally turns back to look at Neil. Golden and burning. Andrew wants to be set aflame. Andrew wants to bloom out of the ashes. 

Stupid. Dangerous. Neil is rubbing off on him. _Heh,_ he thinks, _I wish he was._

It’s such a stupid thought that it momentarily startles him out of his angst. Abruptly he is done having this conversation. 

He shuffles over to Neil as the last of the sunlight drips over the rooftop around them. 

“Yes or no?” 

“Yes. Always yes, Andrew.” 

“Don’t move.” 

Andrew slings his legs over Neils, straddling him, a mirror of the position he’d attempted a couple weeks ago. _Just kissing,_ he reminds himself. Kissing is safe. Andrew is allowed to be safe. 

Neil’s hands are resting on the concrete, bracing him. He’s not quite sitting on them but it’s close enough that it’s clear he thought about it. 

He’s so careful. He doesn’t handle Andrew like he’s fragile— just like he’s important. Something worth caring for. 

“You can put your hands in my hair.”

The sensation of Neil’s fingers sliding along the nape of his neck is intoxicating. It melts him, makes him want to tuck his face into Neil’s throat and just allow himself to breathe. Instead he presses their mouths together, firm and desperate, to hide the tenderness lurking in his chest. 

_I am raw for you. I am destroyed. How dare you do this. How dare you do this and stay. How dare you put me back together._

Neil kisses like Andrew is the beginning and end of the world— like he never wants to stop. 

Andrew is trembling when Neil pulls back, his thighs tight around Neil’s, clutching at his biceps and leaning heavily into his chest. It’s embarrassing, is what it is. Andrew does not get embarrassed but maybe it is okay, just this once, to feel vulnerable.

“I’m not your answer, Andrew, and you aren’t mine,” Neil murmurs, “You don’t have to answer to anyone. Least of all me. That’s all I want from you. For you.” 

Nobody ever wants anything _for_ Andrew. 

“Just fucking kiss me idiot.” 

— 

Andrew gets very comfortable being in Neil’s lap.

He’s not quite ready for the opposite, not ready for a weight bearing down on him, pinning him so he can’t escape, but he is getting addicted to the feeling of Neil’s arms wrapping up over his shoulders, tugging him down to steal kiss after kiss. 

When it finally happens it is not planned. It is just morning, after Columbia. They’d won the night previous, and Neil had been high off the victory. He’d been elated at Eden’s, chattering at Andrew all night, even taking a couple shots with them for once. There had been a soft kind of satisfaction when Andrew had poured him into his bed later that night. That Neil felt safe enough to do so, to know that he could be vulnerable and Andrew would protect him. 

When Andrew’s eyes flutter open the first thing he sees is Neil, his eyelashes glowing in the stripe of sunlight draped across his face. The shine of burnt scar tissue on his face looks like melted gold. 

Andrew lets himself look. He feels warm, curled up under the comforter. He’d managed to avoid nightmares last night, probably a combination of alcohol and exhaustion finally allowing his brain to rest. 

Neil’s eyes flutter open and they immediately lock onto Andrew’s. His lips spread into a sleepy smile. “Staring.” 

“Shut up,” Andrew mutters, voice softer than he would like it to be, still rough from sleep. He pushes himself up and stalks to the bathroom to avoid Neil’s response. When he’s done he trades with Neil and considers what to do with their morning. It’s still early, the others probably won’t be up for hours. They’d drunk considerably more than both Andrew and Neil. He decides to crawl back into bed. They can do breakfast later. 

He half expects Neil to go out for a run like usual, but instead he slides back into the bed next to Andrew, a little closer than he’d been when they’d both been sleeping. They are both facing each other, curved so their feet could almost tangle, if they wanted to. 

Andrew can feel Neil’s gentle breaths on his face, the smell of mint and face soap and sleep sweat mixing pleasantly. Andrew gives into the urge to scoot closer, slowly enough for Neil to pull away, should he desire. 

Neil doesn’t pull away. Instead he leans in, sighing in contentment. Andrew slides his arm under Neil’s draping it over his waist, letting his hand wander up between Neil’s shoulders to press him closer. Neil goes willingly, until they are nose to nose, chests barely touching. Neil keeps one hand under his pillow and the other resting on his hip. 

“You can touch my shoulders,” Andrew instructs roughly. 

Their legs tangle together as they hold each other. Andrew is not used to this, is not used to non-sexual intimacy, but there is still sleep heavy in his limbs and fuzz in his brain so he lets himself revel in the closeness. He won’t be able to fall asleep, this close to another person, but he is relaxed and safe and it lulls him into a kind of silent meditation.

Eventually it’s Neil who breaks the quiet. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Andrew finds himself blinking slowly into the ice of Neil’s gaze. It does not feel as sharp now as it usually does. 

“Yes.” 

When Neil kisses him it starts slow and closed mouthed, just the firm press of his lips against Andrews, dry and soft. Eventually Andrew gets impatient, runs his tongue along Neil’s lower lip, pries him open and presses inside, syrupy and slow. 

Neil’s hand is running up and down Andrew’s spine, right between his shoulder blades, over his shirt. It makes something in Andrew squirm, restless. 

He’s getting hard, he realizes after a little bit, arousal warming in his belly. 

_This is okay,_ he reminds himself, _This is warm and good and safe and you are allowed to have it._

He nudges his hips forward, so Neil’s thigh starts to press between his. When Neil feels it he pulls back from the kiss a little, eyes lidded heavily but still searching Andrew’s, checking in. 

“Okay?” The roughness of his voice has Andrew shivering. 

“Yes, Neil,” he sounds more exasperated than he feels, impatience starting to stir beneath his skin. 

Instead of pressing their lips back together Neil drops his mouth to Andrew’s neck, seemingly intent on taking Andrew apart piece by shuddering piece. 

He licks up Andrew’s jaw to start, mouth soft and sharp in turns. Andrew doesn’t wait for Neil to ask, just mutters, “You can leave marks,” as he snakes his hand up to the nape of Neil’s neck, curling it into the delicate hairs there. With the permission Neil’s mouth turns hard and purposeful, starting at the hinge of Andrew’s jaw with a hard suck that has him curling into Neil’s arms, tightening himself around Neil’s thighs in an unintentional grind. His breaths are starting to come out in pants, harsh and desperate in the soft morning. 

He loses himself in the moment. In the heat of Neil’s mouth and the bite of his teeth, the way he feels warm and held and _safe_ as Neil noses at his throat, sucking bruise after bruise into the delicate skin there. He cannot overthink. He is barely thinking at all. 

_I want him to touch me,_ Andrew thinks, not for the first time. It feels more possible than it has ever felt before. 

“Neil.” 

“Mhmm,” Neil pulls back, looking smug and self-satisfied, spit slicking his red red lips. There is a bit of stubble burn along his cheeks, where Andrew’s jaw has rubbed them. Andrew probably has it on his throat, scraped over the deeper marks that Neil has left. 

“Give me your hand.” 

Neil complies immediately, pulling it from between Andrew’s shoulders where he’s been stroking. Andrew mirrors the movement, tangles their fingers together. 

Slowly, so slowly, Andrew guides his hand down, along his chest, down the soft plane of his stomach, to the trail of hair just above his waistband where his shirt has ridden up. He watches Neil’s eyes widen as he realizes what he is being given. 

Neil’s fingers curl in his happy trail, nails scraping against Andrew’s stomach in a way that forces him to swallow down a noise that might almost be desperate. 

Neil does not ask, just answers the silent question formed in the way Andrew lets Neil’s hand hover just above the waistband of his sweats. 

“Yes, Andrew, I want to touch you, if you want me to.” 

_I want you to,_ Andrew does not say. He forces out a nod instead. Speaking right now feels too vulnerable, like it will give too much away. 

Still, he needs to outline boundaries, “Over my boxers.” 

Neil makes another soft, distracted noise of affirmation, his fingers playing softly at the line of Andrew’s sweatpants. 

They melt into another kiss, mouths pressing together softly. It’s not urgent. Nothing feels urgent right now, just intense and overwhelmingly slow. 

The moment where Neil’s hand slips below his waistband feels like anticipation. Andrew waits for it to feel dangerous, to feel wrong, but it is just the warmth of Neil’s palm where he is sensitive and hard. His fingers find the damp patch where the tip of Andrew’s dick is pressed, leaking into the cloth. Neil does not know what he is doing. Neil has never touched anyone that’s not himself before, Andrew remembers, and he’d confessed in the past that he rarely jacks himself off to start. 

The exploratory press of his fingers is clumsy and inexperienced, but he is gentle and firm. He outlines the shape of Andrew’s dick through his boxers with delicate fingers, before he presses his palm hard against the length of it, prompting Andrew to grind down. 

It takes a while. Neil is patient, eventually moving back to Andrew’s throat again as he strokes Andrew, more confident as time passes, reading the way Andrew’s body shakes, his cut off noises and rasping breaths. 

Eventually he murmurs, “I want you to feel good Andrew, I like to make you feel good.” 

_I feel good._

Andrew’s body is tensing up, the looseness of his sleepy limbs transforming into shivers. His eyes are closed, both his arms clutched around Neil’s chest, up in his hair, pulling them closer closer closer and he is not afraid— he is not anxious or panicked or angry. He is feeling— but it does not feel like falling it just feels like _Neil._

When he comes it is soft and slow, like dawn breaking over the landscape, like gold melting into a flame. He pulls Neil’s lips back to his at the last moment, muffles the rough gasp he lets out into the slide of Neil’s mouth. 

It leaves him panting and vulnerable. Shakes wracking his body and hands clenching tightly. He’s never let anyone see him like this. See him shaking and full of pleasure, full of contentment and softness and— 

He has to pull back from Neil at the intensity of it, and Neil lets him. Andrew turns his face into the pillows, mouth open and gasping, letting it run through his body. 

He keeps his eyes closed and breathes through it. He is okay. He is safe. He is— good. Right now. 

Eventually he comes back inside himself, becomes aware of the way the arm pressed into the bed is buzzing with static, the stickiness inside his boxers, the soreness of his limbs and the pleasant burn along his throat. He is in his body. He _is_ this body. There is no need to be separate, right now. 

When he finally flickers his eyes open it is to the sight of Neil staring, as always. Andrew doesn’t chide him, this time. Just gives him another slow blink. When he finds his voice again he manages to murmur, “Do you want me to—” 

Neil shakes his head, already sitting up, contentment spreading across his features. Andrew can see the bulge in his pajama pants where he is still half hard, but Neil doesn’t seem to care. 

“I’m good. I’m gonna go for a run, I think.” 

Of fucking course he is. Andrew does not hide how unimpressed he feels at the statement. He tries not to appreciate the way Neil can always tell when he needs to be alone. 

“Whatever junkie, go do your stupid fucking cardio.” 

Neil laughs, “Sleep well, Andrew.” 

Andrew refuses to admit he’s falling back asleep until Neil is dressed and out of the room. Only then does he let his eyes drift back shut. 

Maybe he’ll lose this. Maybe he won’t. But he has it now, and he’s not going to let it go anytime soon. 

— 

Later, when he is down in the kitchen, sitting on the counter and sipping at a cup of coffee that is more cream and sugar than actual coffee, Aaron walks in. He looks like death, hair fluffed up like a dandelion and eyes nearly glued shut by sleep. 

He moves towards the coffee machine, barely opening his eyes, grabbing a mug purely on muscle memory. 

It takes him a couple sips to wake up enough to look at Andrew, but when he does he immediately does a double-take. 

“Jesus fuck, did Neil turn into a fucking lamprey? Your neck looks like it has a venereal disease.” 

Andrew takes a sip of his coffee before replying, “You would know.” 

Aaron splutters amusingly. Eventually he rolls his eyes and wanders back out of the room, muttering something under his breath. Andrew ignores him. 

He gets a prime view when Neil gets back to the house. He can see the door open from where he’s seated in the kitchen. 

Neil is silhouetted by sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> tws: 
> 
> internalized victim blaming  
> overt references to drake and the things he has done  
> fairly blunt references to a lot of parts of andrews past  
> overt references to rape/non-con  
> andrew gets triggered during sex. neil stops immediately. andrew has a panic attack. 
> 
> if there's anything else you think needs to be tagged feel free to let me know 
> 
> if you wanna chat you can find me on tumblr at sinistercacophony! comments and kudos are appreciated :)


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